


Speech

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock stops talking, only Lestrade seems to understand him. Sometimes he doesn't, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speech

"How do you do that?" Sally once asked. 

"Thank heaven you’re here," Mrs. Hudson once said; "I can’t understand him when he’s like this."

"Thanks, Greg. I thought I knew what he wanted." John relaxed, shoulders slumped in defeat and eyes tired when Lestrade arrived. "He won’t co-operate today."

No one actually knew what had happened. Sherlock hadn’t actually been touched by his captors; they just seemed to have left him in a room for a week. Granted, it was cold, empty, and isolated, but it was still not the worst situation he had taken Sherlock out of. 

Regardless of what actually happened that they couldn’t see, Sherlock had stopped talking. 

Most days, he still communicated just fine. He had always been expressive, and a look or gesture could sometimes speak volumes louder than any word. At least, Lestrade had thought so. 

"Up, sunshine. And don’t give me that look; you need to shower, eat, and get ready for your appointment." 

Lestrade found himself talking more— filling in the silence. He had learnt how to handle Sherlock years ago, and this was just another form of Holmesian management. There were days when he’d pop into Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson would gloomily report that there was ‘no improvement’, though he’d find a curious Sherlock wrapped around a book about Sign Language and idly moving his hands as instructed. There would be notes and post-it’s in obvious places— stark against the usual clutter if only for their eye-catching colours. 

Even if Sherlock wouldn’t speak, he was clearly trying to communicate. It was hardly his fault if someone didn’t listen. 

There were appointments every month now. Though they had started to taper off. Lestrade found himself understanding why— there was an entire professional group out there who spoke to him rather than Sherlock. They tested everything, and found nothing wrong, but reported the results to the wrong person. And during the days (like today) Sherlock could be muscled in to a therapy session, he stayed in a sulk until dismissed. 

Lestrade chattered to himself as he prepared a light meal, talked about cases and films and music, sometimes about what the girls were up to and how they asked after Sherlock more and more now. He filled the silence of the flat and nearly missed the choked noise from the sofa where Sherlock had (he thought) been sulking. 

"Hey, lad, what’s wrong? What’s happening?" He was over there in a shot, looking for an injury, an indication that he had missed something big. 

Sherlock could only shake his head, hands moving in signs that Lestrade wasn’t familiar with— he had tried, but it was hard to find the time. But this was a new Sherlock, something that resembled the wounded creature he had nursed through withdrawal because he knew there was something brilliant underneath it all. And something caught between a man who just wanted to be heard. 

He smoothed a hand over Sherlock’s curls. An old habit that had come back. “Come on, sunshine. Help me understand. I don’t understand.”

There it was— the look that Lestrade hated. It was broken and pained and entirely lost in the features of Sherlock Holmes. And Lestrade, for all his expertise in handling and managing the lad, was at a loss.

"I don’t understand, sunshine. Help."


End file.
